Hey, wanna hear a story? My name’s Jimmy Olsen. Don’t even fucking do it. It wasn’t funny when I was ten, it’s not getting any funnier the farther we get from Smallville. Yes, I am a photographer but strictly amateur. What I do is I do bike deliveries for the Hermes Bike Delivery, Co. I’m excellent at it. Pro’ly the best on the island. You can’t go Bronx-Manhattan faster than I can. Not even one of those nutty kamikaze Libyan cabbies in light traffic could do it.

I don’t know if somebody said something to the cops or if they just figured it was me ’cause I also do poster work. I can put up a hundred posters in a half hour if they’re in groups, no shit. So they mighta asked the boys who sell the poster glue, there’s only a handful of stores in the whole city that sell the Wilson kind. That’s the best ’cause it just will not tack until you want it to. Then it fixes tight in one minute flat so the fucking kids can’t take ’em down which happens if they’re a particularly juicy titty shot of Claudia or Naomi or something. Anyway, they figured it was me.

So, you’re asking yourself, “What the hell is he talking about?” Let me get to it.

I was doing a delivery on Fifth and financial. I handed off to a junior tycoon. From the look of him I had the envelope in his fat bastard sweaty palm just about thirty seconds before he was gonna go out the window. He shot me two twenties, supporting my theory. Lucky for him the cops nabbed me on the way out instead of going in.

Two of ’em floored me coming out of the elevator in the lobby. Put me face down on the industrial carpeting. That is just slightly higher than one part per million embarrassing. I’m thinking they were just pissed ’cause I was in the elevator with my bike. Sure it’s illegal but we all do it. Like I’m gonna leave a custom titanium frame out on a shitty little Kryptonite. Sure.

So I’m all ready to apologize for taking the bike up. Show ’em my receipt from the office so they wouldn’t start busting my head. City cops are funny that way.

And they’re like kneeling on my back, twisting my arms around like Swedish malpractice before I can say nada. One of ’em jerks me up on my feet and is like, “You little shit.” The other prick is whacking my arms with his big black stick. Witnesses and everything, they don’t care. They put the cuffs on that nasty way too. Slapping ’em right on. That hurts, I can assure you.

We get outside and there’s two news crews already set up and waiting. And I thought I was fast. There’s a big crowd too. One guy in the back is yelling about how he’s gonna kill me. A couple other ratfuck yodel-sticks in the crowd echo the sentiment like pneumatic midway gophers, springing up and barking, “Yeah!” And me without a mallet.

I hear some of the news boneheads using my name for the lead in and all their fucked-up Superman gags they’ve been waiting to haul outta their asses since they got their Journalism degree. Journalism degree, really, what is that all about?

You want to know why they arrested me, right?

Well, seems when everyone went out that morning the city, well, a lot of it, anyway, is covered in penises. That’s to say, there were hundreds of 20 x 30 full-color posters of a phallic still life plastered up. It was great. There’s this gigantic semi-erect pecker in a bowl of fruit. And it’s a fatty. The posters are way bigger than life but the oranges, bananas and apples give the relative size of the dick and it’s relatively huge.

The posters were all over downtown. There was a nice row of ’em down Fifth Avenue over a lot of the shop windows. That was pro’ly what really pissed ’em all off. Tiffany’s had a single Fujicolor cock dead-center in each display window. It wasn’t funny to the breakfast crowd I guess. So the city was up in arms like you hadn’t seen since Sinead tore up the Pope. I think they were just jealous. Nobody likes to see a pecker bigger than his when he’s with his chick. Especially not when shopping for engagement bands. The rest of the city was laughing, but the cops weren’t among that statistical division.

They thought I did it. That’s why they took me in like a subway killer. Trouble for ’em of course is that they’ve got no real evidence. They’ve got about a thousand finger prints which weren’t mine. But this took two days for the geniuses to figure out. All they’ve got is that they know I coulda done it ’cause that’s the kind of work I do anyway and some dickhead on Fifth came in to say he saw a white guy on a bike putting a couple up. Well, let’s just say my defense looked somewhat firmer than OJ’s.

They good-cop, bad-copped me in the interrogation snack bar. They’re like, “We know all about you.”

And I’m like, “Yeah? You know I won’t go Dutch, then.” Except I didn’t really say that. I didn’t wanna get my ass kicked.

The one guy is asking me all kinds of penis related questions. Like he was reading ’em off a cue card. I had no idea they had department policy on dick. New York, yeah, boy.

The other thing they thought they had me on was motive. I’ve got quite a collection of anything that’s cock oriented and collectible. I’m not a fag. I don’t know, I just always thought dicks were funny. Someday I’ll pro’ly retire to some little Shitburg in Arizona and open a truck stop museum on the 66. “The Jimmy Jamboree” or something. Then when people come in and go, “You Jimmy?” I’ll say, “Ah’yup, reckon so.” Anyway, some dumbass musta told the cops that I’ve got more dildoes than Heidi Fleiss and Ivana Trump put together.

They’re all hammering me about having a dick fetish and calling me queer and a weirdo and all. Like in the Apple a dildo collection makes you weird. I was polite enough but not so much that they figured they could keep it up all day and get something outta me. They gave up and let me make my call.

I had to call down to Hermes so they’d know what was up. Being the star bike boy carries certain obligations. My friend Tammy works there too so she jumps onto the line. She’s like saying how it’s all horseshit and she and Buddy are coming right down to bail me out and everything.

I’m like, “No, do not come down here. I can wait and they’ll let me go pretty soon. It’s no big deal. It’s fun. The food’s boss.”

After the third day, they’ve got to charge me, or let me go. That’s the law. It’s supposed to be two but they hauled me in on Memorial day weekend so they had me. The Constitution is completely suspended for certain national holidays.

They were freaking out in the squadroom as it got down to the wire. They were pro’ly missing some cop picnic too or something and mad about that. There was a buzz around the place that seemed to involve a lot of Latin vocabulary. I guess Commissioner Gordon was gonna lose his job if Batman and Robin didn’t discover who had cocked downtown. Like I’d shot the Pope or something. The worst they could even pretend to charge me with was Felony Mischief.

The detective cop takes me back out of lock-up again to the snack area and is like, “We know it was you,” sounding pretty desperate. Last chance to get a confession outta me.

The cop is waving one of the pecker posters at me. I could tell what he was driving at. He’s like, “There’s a way to end this. You don’t want it to come to that, now, do you? Just confess and we’ll get the DA to go easy with you.”

Not that I wasn’t flattered but I told ’em, “That pecker is tremendously large. It ain’t mine.”

They’re not believin. They’re like, “Show us the dick, kid.” And I go, “Homey don’t play that.” Except I didn’t say it out loud still. I just told ’em it wasn’t gonna happen.

They left me in the cop lounge, pro’ly hoping I’d attempt to go out the window or something so they could shoot me and get to the volleyball game. I had some lovely Hostess snack cakes and watched the final couple of hours tick down.

My two new friends came back in at the two minute warning, effectively stopping the clock. They’d managed to get it legally squared. A last minute court order to scrutinize my pecker. I could just see ’em knocking on the judge’s door for that one. “Sorry to wake you up on a holiday morning, your Honor. We need your good legal permission to fondle a young man’s dingle.”

They tell me what’s up and show me the court order with a big grin and I went, “So which one of y’all’s drawn Inspector McPecker duty?” Except this time I really said it ’cause I was tired of trying to stay quiet. And the one fucking detective hits me. Not lawsuit hard, but hard enough that I stopped being so goddamn funny.

The two of ’em take me in the back to a locker room. I guess they have to have a witness on account of some of these nutballs are rapists and shit. Lucky me. They put me in the cuffs again, I don’t know why, maybe they figured me for a rapist too and were worried I might get the jump on ’em once my shorts were down around my ankles. The one cop gets on some rubber gloves like a pro, snapping ’em and everything. I’m telling you, cops weren’t like that before “ER.” The other has one of the pecker posters there. So they can do a compare and contrast.

And guess what. When the guy pulls my dick — an expression I’ll never use lightly again — they realize they’ve got the wrong pecker. Even as hard as he was pullin, I got at best six inches. That’s not braggin neither. I ain’t one of those big dick liars. They know that the cock in the posters, is no less than ten inches judging by the fruit it’s laying on. They’re all scoping out my shaft like some kind of scientists or something for about a minute. The landmarks of that one and mine were more than a little different. Fuck, I’m not even circumcised. It should’ve taken all of two seconds. You know? Zip, flop. “Oh, no rabbi here. You can go, kid.”

But the one guy’s got my dick in his latex covered hand like he’s going, “What do make of this, Spock?”

And the other cop with the photo is like, “My tricorder must be malfunctioning, Captain. This penis reads as entirely human.”

They let me go then. I acted indignant but the truth is I kind of had a good time all things considered. And they didn’t fuck up my bike or let anybody steal the seat. So I had no real complaints.

I’m on my way out with my bike on my shoulder. Hoping those news weasels have already alerted everybody that I’m off the Public Enemy list; not to be shot on sight anymore. Tammy and Buddy are double parked in their crappy little Renault with the hazards flashing.

I wanted to dance to their car, spin around and go, “Suckers! Suckers!” at the precinct. But that always looks kind of suspicious.

Tammy and Buddy’ve been my best friends in New York since I got here. So I totally blew ’em off and jumped on my bike and pedaled east like I had a rush or something. I sure didn’t want to be seen with Buddy what with the cops being so dick grabby. ’Cause I’ll tell you what. I did put all those pecker posters up. I told you I’m a shutterbug. That picture all over town wasn’t my dick but it was my photograph. It was Buddy’s giant goddamn pecker in that fruit bowl, and that’s the truth.